Lyn Benedict - Gods & Monsters

THEY HAD TO BACKTRACK TO GET TO THE ISI GARAGE, AND IT MADE Sylvie’s nerves prickle every step of the way. Marco was powerful, but he wasn’t an infallible weapon. A single necromancer in the building, or an agent who understood some basic protection spells, and their ghost-shield could be neutralized in a heartbeat.

Cachita’s breath warmed her ear; she was getting too close again, blocking Sylvie’s range of motion, and Sylvie shoved her off.

Marco moved before them, an icy fog shot through with roiling motion, endless hunger, endless appetite. He took out the agents on guard in the garage, leaving Sylvie free to pick and choose among the car keys on the peg board.

She chose a black SUV, wanting as much space between Marco and her as possible while they hunted for Wales. He drifted into the passenger seat, and Cachita crawled into the back without a single protest.

Marco raised an arm, a bar of cold shadow pointing south. Sylvie took the SUV into the twilit streets of Miami, streaks of neon beneath the freeway flickering to life.

Cachita leaned forward, her hands tense around Sylvie’s seat. “You really think the ghost can find Wales?”

The question hurt. A sudden sharp pinch of awareness. She didn’t want to lose Wales. She had grown to like him. Was one long lunch away from calling him friend.

He might be a necromantic Ghoul, but Alex was right: Wales was a good guy.

She forced calmness. “I think Marco’s better than nothing. I think Marco’s the only game in town. I never got a chance to give Erinya Azpiazu’s scent.”

“But I have yours ,” Erinya said from the backseat.

Cachita shrieked. Sylvie grappled with the wheel; the SUV slewed just enough to elicit a series of horn blasts and multilingual curses.

“Eri,” Sylvie said. “Don’t. Do. That.”

“Better than Alekta,” Erinya said. “She would have appeared in front of the truck and been surprised when you hit her. Not that it would have stopped her from climbing aboard.” She poked her head forward, shoved Cachita back with a careless hand. “Why do you have a killer’s ghost in your car? Is it for me? Can I eat it?”

“No,” Sylvie said. “He’s our guide to Azpiazu.”

Erinya snarled. “ I’m your guide.”

“You’ve been replaced. You took off,” Sylvie said. “And not that I’m not grateful—the ISI’s going to be on my ass enough about one dead agent—but what the hell did you do with Alex?”

“Alex?”

Sylvie stared at her, cold horror crawling down her spine at the utter confusion in Erinya’s voice. If Erinya hadn’t taken Alex, then . . . had they left her in the ISI’s untender care? “My assistant? Blonde? Eros’s chosen—”

“Oh. Her. I took her to Eros. He wouldn’t want her hurt, and I like to make him happy.”

“Of course you do,” Sylvie muttered. Everyone wanted to make the god of Love happy. “Wait. You took her to him? You took her off earth ?”

“Just for a little bit. Eros’ll send her back, soon. Probably. Unless he really likes her. He gets bored. Justice is busy busy busy trying to straighten things out up there and fighting with Zeus.”

Sylvie swallowed. “Erinya. The moment we are all done with Azpiazu? You will bring her back. In one piece. Not transformed, enchanted, or lovesick.”

Erinya shrugged. “Whatever.”

Sylvie changed lanes at Marco’s prod, a cold spur into her shoulder that made her fingers tremble as if he’d shocked her. “Jesus, all right. Turn here. I get it.”

Cachita shivered. “Sylvie, we need to hurry.”

“I’m aware,” Sylvie said. There were time strictures all over their little plan. They had to race Azpiazu’s spellwork. They had to race Tepeyollotl’s impatience. On top of it all, sooner or later, the ISI agents would start waking from Marco’s soul shock, and they were going to be pissed. The SUV would be easy enough for them to track, what with the government GPS a standard part of its equipment. “Eri, you still going to be part of this?”

“Can’t kill another god’s chosen,” Erinya said. “Even if the god wants him dead. Can’t hunt Demalion, ’cause you won’t tell me where he is.” She slumped back into the shadows of the car, the very picture of a teen who’d been unfairly grounded.

“I’m sure there’ll be things you can fight,” Sylvie said. “Stick around?” She took the next road Marco suggested, irritated at the slowness of his navigation. For all she knew, he was taking her the slowest route possible. But short of pulling the car over and trying that memory merge again, she didn’t know another way.

Wales had been beneath the water. Not deep. Tiles at his back, slimed with algae that tore under his struggles. The water just above his reaching hand. Not a swimming pool, not a natural pond. Large enough for five adults. Isolated.

She studied the roads they were on, the slow changeover from full city skyscrapers to smaller shops and slower streets. To old-fashioned streetlamps and shady walks. Coconut Grove.

And water everywhere. Biscayne Bay butted up against the seawalls there. But he wasn’t in salt water; his eyes hadn’t been stinging. Not the ocean.

Erinya cocked her head, sniffed the air, and Sylvie said, “Eri? You getting something?”

Erinya sucked her lower lip into her mouth, pouting as if she were nothing more than the twentysomething goth girl she appeared. “You gonna come work for Dunne if I tell you?”

“I think I’ll just wait for Marco,” Sylvie said. Safer, but less informative. Erinya twitched, ran her claws down the leather seats, fidgeted. Sylvie hid a grin. Erinya wanted to tell. All Sylvie had to do was wait.

“Close to the sea,” Erinya said. “Something’s twisted. Something’s rotten. Cruel. I can taste prey and fear.”

“Azpiazu,” Sylvie said.

Marco pressed closer just as a familiar landmark began to appear on Sylvie’s left. Vizcaya Gardens.

Sylvie choked back a laugh. It fit in a terrible way. Lots of water features, shallow ponds, lots of archaic luxury. She just wondered what he’d done with the tourists. Here was hoping he’d set up after hours.

She pulled the SUV to a halt, let her strange passengers unload into the tree-dark lot—Erinya bounding out, animal grace in a human form, Cachita clambering out on shaky limbs, and Marco oozing through the door.

Sylvie hadn’t been to Vizcaya since her high-school days, remembered it as a green expanse of blind grottos and ponds, of stone stairways and carefully patterned gardens. A safe place to play.

Now, while the sky purpled about them, closing them into darkness, the gardens felt anything but safe. The air pressed close to her skin, dark, hot, humid like an animal’s fetid breath. Hungry and predatory, giving her the sense of something larger moving behind the darkness.

The gardens themselves felt dead , suffocating in silence and stillness. There were none of the sounds Sylvie expected from tropical night settling in—no frog creaking, no bird wings rustling as they perched and preened, no owls calling through the dark—only silence and weight.

Erinya sniffed the air, wrinkled her nose. “It smells like rot.”

“What does?”

“Everything,” Erinya said.

Cachita shivered and her shiver was echoed by the world, a tremble in the gravel pathway they stood on.

“Hold it together,” Sylvie said. “You lose it, we get Tepeyollotl’s attention.” She wanted Cachita to wait in the car, to stay out of the conflict, stay calm. Given the way Cachita clutched Sylvie’s sleeve, leaving her behind would only send her into panic faster.

“Cachita!” Sylvie snapped. “C’mon. I expect more from the woman who was trolling the streets for a sorcerer armed only with a Taser.”